


Presence

by thefrogg



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, reckless self-endangerment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Clint wants for Christmas is to see Phil again.  The rest of the team is a little concerned by this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presence

**Author's Note:**

> This is for prompt 62: Clint doesn't know Phil's alive yet, so he's very sad to spend Christmas without him. He finds out, and it's ~the best Christmas ever~.
> 
> Or, at least, my interpretation of it. Like this surprises _anyone_ familiar with my work.

The snow is oppressive, shrouding the New York City skyline in a cloak of swirling white, muffling the far-distant noise of what little traffic is out to nothing; a mournful wind covers the rest with its low moans, curling around the edges of the tower and sweeping ice crystals across exposed skin.

Not that Clint can feel it, the heat of his body leeched away, hours of exposure turning the healthy tan of his arms a ghastly pale, the faint blush of his lips edging toward blue.

It matches the vast expanse of frigid wasteland that his heart's become, warmed ever so briefly at Natasha's side, at Steve's friendship, under Fury's unexpected sympathetic gaze, Tony's frenetic, almost frantic energy. The hearthfire's gone out, and the small comfort that is Thor's camaraderie, Bruce's undemanding concern can't rekindle it. He's become a ghost of himself, playing at what he was, before; he's good at it, good enough to fool those who hadn't known him before, those who don't have the time or the inclination or the energy to keep him under a microscope.

The team's worried. Fury probably knows. Clint's long known how to work the SHIELD psych department; anything he actually grants them is at his discretion, and they know it, but they can't keep him from the field because he doesn't pass a psych exam.

It's enough that he hasn't gotten himself killed in battle since.

Since Loki took over his brain.

Since the Chitauri invaded New York City.

Since...

Since.

Clint tightens his fists, unable to feel the skin beyond a faint pressure. It won't be long now, won't be long until he's deep enough, hypothermic enough to start hallucinating.

To see things.

It won't be long before the team will take him back inside to get warm, whether or not he wants to go; there's a heap of cloth around his feet, a rainbow of warmth offered and rejected: his own winter jacket, black and purple; blankets in green and smoky grey; the brilliant red of Thor's cape.

"Clint."

Natasha's voice isn't unexpected; he lets the change in his breathing pattern be acknowledgement enough.

"Come back inside, you're going hypothermic."

 _'I've_ been _hypothermic, you mean,'_ Clint thinks sluggishly. He won't be able to fight her off, but she won't drag him back inside.

Not yet.

He hopes.

"Clint," she says again, and there's a note of frustration there this time.

"Not yet," he manages, cold air slipping through his lips, down his throat before he can seal them shut, and his body's fighting for every little bit of warmth, trying to survive.

"You're not the only one." She doesn't finish, doesn't have to; she doesn't want the too-often violent reactions to his name, _Phil's_ name, and there's no guard rail.

 _'Just the one that made it_ possible,' he won't say, can't force past lips dry and cracked and too cold to even hurt.

"Clint."

"Not. Not dying," and he knows that's what she's worried about.

"If you were actively suicidal you'd be dead already. You've had entirely too many chances to kill yourself, or get yourself killed. That doesn't mean--"

"You know why I'm here." Words hurt; they shouldn't be _necessary._ "Pay for it later," he rasps, because he will, because it will hurt like hell feeling his body come back to life, thawing out the way his heart won't, can't.

"I--" The pause is interminable, and Clint can hear the uncertainty, the pain even in that small sound. "I lost, too."

He knows this, knows he's been completely useless to her, he knows he knows _he knows he knowsheknows--_

"Go away." The words are harsh to his own hears, worse scraping against the raw hell that is his throat; he still doesn't turn to look at her. "Don't want you here."

She doesn't answer; he doesn't have the energy to flinch, to pull away as the heat of her bare hand knifes through his upper arm.

Then the pain is fading, as is the faint remnant of what little warmth she'd left behind; he can hear her voice in the background, but it's not directed at him, and he lets his vision fade out on the lost-and-found shadows of neighboring skyscrapers through the swirling snow.

~~~

"Barton, what am I going to do with you?"

Clint's too cold to flinch, too numb to move, but he can hear the fondness beneath the exasperated disappointment. "S-sir--I--"

There's a ghost of pressure against his shoulder, the small of his back, a familiar guiding hand curling around his hip. "Let's get you inside and warmed up."

"O-okay, sir." Clint blinks the snow out of his eyelashes, turns stiffly; there's a shoulder leaning into him, a strong arm wrapping around helping support him. _Steve, probably, or Bruce, they both have the control, both--_ He pushes the thought away, he wanted Phil, wanted enough to risk--

But there's a familiar hand on him, and he manages to stumble along, listening to the too-familiar and much-too-missed mix of coaxing and gentle scolding until they're in his suite, then bathroom, not one Avenger in evidence. Not that Clint would have cared, too busy focusing what energy he has left on soaking in Phil's voice, glimpses of his face past the hazy fog of hypothermia. Mostly the voice not quite in his ear, the voice that called him home, his true north, and he doesn't fight the knowing hands on his gear, stripping his sleeveless tunic before giving up on getting him out of his pants; the small room is billowing with steam from the shower, and Phil's done this before, cut him out of his clothes, frozen or bloody or--

"S-sorry, sir, I just--j-just wanted, I n-needed t-to s-see--"

"Nothing to apologize for, Barton," Phil stops him, words coming from below, and there are hands tugging at his pants, the sound of tearing cloth, and hot air swirling against his legs, marginally warmer than the rest of him. "Into the shower with you." There's the sound of rustling cloth, and then another pause, and--

Water running over his shoulders, hot, too hot, and he tries to move out of it--

"I promise, it's not hot, it just feels that way, hold still, it'll be better soon." Phil presses up against his back, a furnace of skin.

"H-hurts, s-sir, I-" Clint swallows down a whimper.

"I know. I know, worst case of pins and needles ever. It'll get better. Stay with me."

"Wish I c-could, sir," Clint whispers, leaning forward until his knees threaten to give out, until Phil's arm is a steel band under his rib cage. "Not. Not real. Just."

"Stay with me, Barton. I'm not going anywhere."

"Not here. Not." There's water running over his scalp, down his face, the ache in his eyes as much from tears as thawing cold, but at least Phil can't see, can't tell. Not-Phil. "S-sorry, so sorry, d-din't, n-never said--"

"Never said what, Clint?" and Phil's easing him to the shower floor, pulling him back against his own chest as lukewarm water runs over them both.

"S-such a c-coward, n-never t-told you, never s-said, d-din't wanna risk--" _losing you,_ he doesn't, _can't_ say.

"Never said what?" Phil says again, infinitely gentle.

"N-never s-said I, how m-much I l-love you, s-sir, I know you c-can't--" and he chokes it off on a sob, shoulders heaving as he can't hold it anymore, too exhausted, hurting too much from the fading cold and the suffocating grief that hasn't lessened at all.

"Clint..."

There's pressure at the back of his neck, like Phil's resting his forehead there, but says nothing more for a long time, just skims calloused hands over painfully waking skin, over ribs and wrists and abdomen, brushing thumbs down the curve of jaw and neck. "L-lost you, I'm so, so tired, c-coward," and Clint doesn't try and stop the sobs that shake his shoulders, the tears that taste of bitterness and defeat.

"Clint, listen to me. Are you listening?"

"I." He stops, sniffs hard, and tries again. "Al-always, sir, I."

"Good, you just listen, okay? You're not a coward."

"Y-yes, I--"

"Didn't I just tell you to listen?"

"S-sorry, sir."

"Clint."

Clint is helpless to stop the knot of warmth in his belly as Phil pulls him closer, nuzzles into the nape of his neck. His hands unclench, wrap themselves around Phil's wrists.

"Everyone you've ever loved has hurt you or abandoned you or both. Everyone you trusted - everyone until you met me - has ground that trust into the dirt. Don't you know--You weren't _ready_ to say that, Clint, you weren't ready."

There's a hand pressed to his chest now, hot as a brand where his heart beats weak and frantic, and he can't find his voice. Not that Phil would let him say a word.

"God, Clint. You never had to, I would have waited forever, you trusted me. _You trusted me,_ do you have any idea how much--" 

"It's too late, though, you went and, and you're--you _died,"_ comes out as a wail. "I can't--you don't--sir, don't have to, to let me down easy--"

"Do not even finish that sentence, Clint Barton, don't you dare," and the words are fierce and possessive, the arms around him flexing tight.

"Doesn't matter," Clint mumbles. "Doesn't matter, you're dead, not real, so tired."

"Yes, it matters." There's a kiss on a wet shoulder, lips against skin. "I know you won't believe me, but I'm real. I'm not dead, and I didn't leave you. I wasn't supposed to be cleared until February--"

"Too late," Clint rasps, not caring how it sounds, how--they already think he's suicidal, confirmation is going to do what, exactly? Make him more miserable? "Wanted to be with you, not--"

"Clint," and the pain in Phil's voice stops him. "I need you to know I did everything I could, I fought for this, I--I was going to be here tomorrow."

"Christmas present."

Phil gives a sad little laugh at that, shaking him with it. "Yes, I suppose. As much as hearing you say you love me is."

Clint can't help stiffening, knowing he said the words, knowing even figments of his own imagination don't, can't say it back. "So tired, sir, just want to--" and stops trying to squirm free at Phil's surprised, "Clint?"

The water is just lukewarm now, the chill almost completely gone, but Clint's holding onto the fiction, refusing reality--

_'I reject your reality and substitute my own.'_

And if that was the only way he'd ever get to see Phil again, then so be it.

That determination does nothing to stop the tremors, nothing to make him understand the worried, almost frantic words in his ears, nothing to free him from the hands holding him upright and out of the streams of water still pouring down over them--

\--until it isn't.

Clint lets out a sob as the body curled around him disappears, buries his face against a forearm.

"Clint?" Phil's worried voice is accompanied by soft shearling wrapping around his shoulders. "What is it, what'd I say--"

The contact is welcome, proof positive that Phil - not-Phil, whichever of his teammates has taken it upon themselves to be stand-in - hasn't abandoned him, and he offers no resistance, helping as much as he has strength for as Phil tugs him awkwardly to his feet. "Don't--don't leave," he can't stop himself from pleading, begging almost inaudibly.

"I'm not going anywhere, Clint."

"You're dead, you won't be here--" He can't stand the petulance in his own voice, but he can't stop it either, just clamp his jaw shut in the hopes that silence will hold onto the illusion better than insistence that it is one.

"I will, I will, I promise, but you won't believe that until tomorrow, so come on." Those gentle hands wrapped the towel around him, gently tugging him back into the bedroom.

The towel landed somewhere on the floor, leaving bare skin to slide across smooth sheets. "Don't leave, don't--" Hands grasped helplessly, weakly catching at at forearm, at wrist before sliding off.

"I'm here, Clint, I'm not leaving, just--here, scoot over."

It's not like it will matter in the morning, not like he won't be expecting to see Steve, or Bruce, or even Tony (maybe, he can't and won't say that Tony doesn't understand) come morning, so he swallows down whatever pathetic reply he might have made and follows instructions.

Phil slides in next to him, pulling blanket and comforter over them both before dragging Clint closer.

Clint can't resist, doesn't protest when Phil - not-Phil - makes it so obvious that he's wanted, and drapes himself over Phil's chest, feels fingers tug at his hair, gentle, affectionate, and passes out to the soft murmurs of _"I love you, I'm here, I'm not leaving you--"_

~~~

Sleep that night is deep and dreamless, no swirling pale blue bleeding into everything, no prideful green-and-gold clad gods taking advantage, no failure or guilt or loss leaving him restless or screaming.

It's the first solid sleep he's had--since, and leaves him to wake slow, light from the windows dimmed to twilight despite the sun's white glow dulled by tinted glass.

The presence of a warm body beneath him, heart beating comfort against his skin, familiar - painfully familiar - scent in his nose pull him closer to consciousness, even though he doesn't want, doesn't want--

"Good morning, Clint." It's still Phil's voice, unbelievably Phil's voice--

Phil's scent filling his lungs--

Heartbeat--

_Heartbeat--_

"I told you I wouldn't leave you," Phil whispers as a shocked whimper escapes him.


End file.
